Boast

In the market square he stands, chest out, voice loud,
A trumpeter of triumph, his tale unbowed.
He boasts of climbs no mountain ever saw,
Of riches piled like clouds in a summer’s straw.

Yet beneath the bragging, a quiet thread—
A hope that praise might lift the weight he’s shed.
For every boast is a fragile plea,
A whisper, “See me,” flung wildly, free.

So let his words tumble like rain on slate,
Not to inflate ego, but to relate
That even the loudest, proudest show
Can hide a heart that simply wants to glow.